Hors d'Oeuvres
by PutMoneyInThyPurse
Summary: A few Ratatouille vignettes. I know, I'm obsessed. Sue me.
1. La Femme de Mon Ami

La Femme de Mon Ami

"Wow!"

Colette stepped back from tasting Remy's latest concoction – he was rather proud of it, if he did say so himself – and turned to him, eyes shining, face aglow. "Oh, mon Chef!" she breathed reverently. "C'est—" But then he saw the aftertaste hit, and she broke off in surprise, her blue eyes narrowing, her expression going sly, and not a little amused. Raising an eyebrow, she said, "You added something when I wasn't looking, hein? Admit it."

Pleased, Remy shrugged, feigning innocence. He had, but he didn't feel like admitting it just yet.

"Come on, mon Chef, I need to add it to the recipe!"

Colette was compiling some of his dishes into a book. He didn't think they would taste so great when they were repeated off of a dry recipe, but she was enthusiastic about preserving them for posterity, so he went along. This time, though, he was feeling mischievous. He shrugged again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ah, non?"

The next thing he knew, he was flipped over and Colette's long fingers were tickling his chest. He squealed with laughter, surprised he was enjoying it. "Whoa!"

"Tell me." Her hands were gentle, but he was quite effectively trapped. Her nails skritched gently through his fur, under his armpits, down his sides. "Confess!"

"No – hey – hey!" His laughter grew louder. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be tickled – the last time he'd done this kind of roughhousing was as a baby rat with Emile, and Emile had quit roughhousing with him when he'd grown up to be slight of build, fearing to hurt him. He'd forgotten it was so much fun!

She was laughing, too, her eyes shining, sensing he was enjoying it. "Come on! Tell me!"

"Non!" he giggled, his voice coming out as a high-pitched squeak. "Quit that!" he added, more for form's sake than anything else; he was giddy with happiness, the playful touch opening up a wellspring of joy.

"Tell me tell me tell me!" Her fingers gentled, afraid to hurt him. He leaned into the touch, drunk with bliss, smiling like a loon. "You will, n'est-ce pas?"

The tickling slowed, then stopped, but she kept her hand on his chest. Remy took a deep breath, the happiness flooding through him still, sending light and power through his veins. Grabbing one of her slim fingers and rubbing it across his cheek, he got to his feet slowly. Crossing over to the cumin, he held out a hand with a flourish in the direction of the jar.

Her eyes lit up. "You cunning devil, you!"

The pencil skritched on the paper, and before Remy could react, she had bent down and kissed him on the cheek. "Merci, mon Chef!"

Dizzy, Remy watched her retreating form, absently rubbing at the trace of her rouge à levres, still smiling beatifically. His wild, joyous thoughts slowly coalesced into a single, coherent idea.

Man, if your wife wasn't human, Linguini, mon ami, he thought, intensely grateful for the interspecies difference, you would SO have competition.

* * *


	2. Contente

Contente

There are moments, sometimes, when he's not showing her how he likes a particular recipe done, when he's not making something he's made before, when it happens – the flash of brilliance, the driven, desperate quest to achieve what he wants, to turn what he smells and tastes so clearly in his mind into reality. Sometimes it's joyous, a fiesta of delight in creation, a jubilant celebration of being alive, and sometimes it's tormented, as he searches at the edges of his consciousness for a half-forgotten memory of scent or texture, unsure if what he wants even exists, but always, always it's accompanied by That Look, of joy or sorrow – intent, closed off from the world. In those moments, she and Alfredo aren't there for le petit Chef; there is only him and whatever voice speaks to him inside.

She's learnt to recognize That Look, and when it happens, that's her signal. Dropping everything, she whips out a pad and pencil and follows him like an intent, silent shadow – not that he'd notice anyway, in that state he's closed off from all the world – furiously writing down every move he makes, never ceasing to be amazed at the combinations he creates, the tiny, subtle changes in accepted ways of doing things that lifts his work onto a magical plane, that makes of food more than food. She remembers the Spanish word – duende – when the performing arts reach a level of intensity that propels them onto the plane of the creative. Le p'tit Chef is so unlike any chef she's ever known, even the best of the television chefs, that it's an insult to compare him with another. Gusteau is the only one she might hold him up to, sometimes. And so she makes it her task to record his creations for posterity, so that they may not slip away from the world when he and she and Alfredo are all gone…

A tiny exhalation escapes Colette. She sometimes wishes she were a genius like him. Once she told Alfredo this, and he said, "But you are, Colette." She had to work hard on not losing a little respect for her beloved – she finally did it by telling herself that in his own field of duende, skating, he would definitely be discriminating enough to be able to tell talent from genius. It's flattering that he sees her that way, of course, but Colette hates self-delusion even more than she hates false modesty. She knows she's not a genius. Oh, she's good, very good, she knows that, she's competent, yes, creative, yes, perhaps even a little bit gifted – but her skill comes of diligence, of study, of true love for her art. Le Chef's kind of genius, though, only a whisker away from madness – she's seen the rat talking to himself a few times – no, that's not her. Her feet are too firmly planted on the ground for that.

Just looking at him this time confirms what she's been thinking, even as her pen scribbles madly across the notebook. Nothing can stop him when he's creating: he's like a creature possessed, rushing back and forth among fruits and vegetables and spices and herbs, weighing possible combinations in his mind, choosing not out of knowledge – for this much Colette can tell – but out of pure instinct at the highest level, even when he's never set eyes on some of the ingredients before, his nose telling him what will go best with the others. She watches the intent look on his face as he frantically searches for the right element to satisfy that tiny voice giving orders in his mind. He's like the poets of old who used to say that they were dictated their poems directly from the gods. She doesn't know what he'd say if she told him that, but she's sure, as she watches him rushing back and forth, searching for the perfect scent, twisting and turning this way and that like a puppet on a string, that he is a slave to his gift; he can no more control it than she can control the tide, can no more break free of it than that tide can break free of the moon.

"Don't shut me out," she had said once to Alfredo, before she knew that it came from le Chef. Alfredo would never shut her out, she knows that now – and, in fact, neither would le Chef, not consciously anyway, but he can't help himself. It is his gift that is ruthless, laying claim to him, making him unconsciously selfish, even as his self is all but erased by the force that drives him. She is a witness to this rather frightening phenomenon. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

Slowly, a smile breaks across her face, even as her pen never stops furiously scribbling. Ça ne fait rien, she thinks, all things considered, that she isn't a genius. That kind of gift is one in a million, non, in more than that. And what are the odds that she should be one of those? In fact – what were the odds that she should have been the one to train one of those, and be trained by him in return?

She shakes her head. Extraordinary. Miraculous, even. She, plain ol' level-headed Colette, is the disciple of a creative genius greater than Gusteau, the likes of whom may not have existed since Brillat-Savarin. It is she who is privileged to witness his work first-hand, and to be Plato to his Socrates. And even better, perhaps she and Alfredo can save him from the madness that comes with the territory, can prevent him dying of a broken heart like Gusteau, Van Gogh, Schumann… so many artistes before him. And in return? In return, they get love, and knowledge, and happiness.

Worth much more than being a genius, any day.


	3. Vocabulaire

Vocabulaire

They sit on the sofa watching one of the Pink Panther movies, Linguini on the sofa, Colette snuggled up against his shoulder, bare feet stretched out on the rest of the cushions, Little Chef sprawled contentedly facedown on the sofa arm next to him. Colette, chuckling softly over the antics of Inspector Clouseau, has her head against his chest, a warm weight that fills him with gladness. He has one arm round her, a hand stroking her smooth, glossy hair, dropping occasionally to caress her soft, perfect shoulder, and he feels ten feet tall knowing he's managed to make her happy. With his other hand, Alfredo strokes his friend's fur, smoothing the wiry hairs down, fingers and thumb massaging the tiny muscles. Little Chef's eyes are positively blissful, a beatific expression on his face; he knows how much his friend likes a massage, and he loves to pet him. It's a small miracle to him, the outline of the small body beneath the blue-grey fuzz: head, neck, flank, shoulder, spine… It's at these moments that Alfredo feels like Superman: Making the two most important people in his life happy – is there anything warmer, more wonderful than this?

It's a surprise to him when the rat begins to vibrate, producing high-pitched clicking sounds.

"Huh?" Jerking up from his relaxed position, getting a "Hey!" from Colette, Alfredo snatches his hand away. "You okay, Little Chef?"

All he gets in response is a very disgruntled stare. Why'd you stop?

"Well, I just… you…"

"He's just bruxing, chéri." There's a definite hint of superiority in Colette's I-know-something-you-don't tone.

Alfredo looks from his wife to his friend. Little Chef's smiling at her quizzically, and – not for the first time – Alfredo feels he's missing something. Not that he minds; it fills him with warmth to see the rapport between the two dearest people in the world to him. He starts to smile goofily, but shakes himself. "What's that mean?"

She smiles at Little Chef, but it's to him that her words are addressed. "One of my sisters raised rats," she twinkles at him. "Bruxing is like purring for rats, mon amour. It's what you just heard. It means he's happy as a clam."

This time his smile is hesitant, trying to understand. "So…" he looks at his friend. "You rats make that sound when you're being petted? Like we'd kinda go "mmm" if we're getting a backrub?"

The little guy sits up now, his face intent on explaining something. He gestures, "yes, but something more."

"Okay," Alfredo sits up straighter as well, "what?"

The Chef makes the gesture of being stroked, then places a hand over his heart.

Colette makes a little 'aw' sound, as Alfredo checks, "When you're being touched by someone you… uh, care for?"

Little Chef gestures again, "yes, but something more."

Colette cuts in gently, "When you're being touched by someone you love?"

The rat nods emphatically, and Alfredo's started to blush when his friend gestures again, "yes, but something more."

Colette looks puzzled, and Alfredo shrugs. "You got me, Little Chef."

Little Chef's brow furrows in thought for a second. Then he motions for Alfredo to bring his hand adjacent to the sofa arm, palm up. Getting to his feet on the upholstered surface, he turns his back on Alfredo's hand. Then, very deliberately, he shuts his eyes and topples over backwards off the precipice – over the floor, not over the cushions.

"Whoa!" In a flash, Alfredo catches him securely in his palm, bringing up his other hand in a reflex. "You crazy? What'd you do that for?"

It's Colette who answers, and the feminine voice is warm. "He knows that if he falls, you'll be there to catch him."

The Chef points a "you-got-it" finger at Colette, lounging up on one elbow on his palm, and gestures to her, "Come on, come on, say it…"

But she grins. "No, I want him to do the work this time."

Alfredo stares at the Chef for a moment, still seeing the image of him just falling off the sofa, limp as a body from a TV murder mystery, just completely relaxed and trus…Oh!

"Someone you trust," he realizes. "You make that sound…when you're being touched by someone you trust," he puts words to what his friend wanted to say, his heart filling. It still embarrasses him when his friend says it out loud like that.

Little Chef applauds. Smoothly, he hops off the hand, lies down on the sofa arm again, and gestures, "So can we get back to what we were doing?"

Alfredo slowly leans back, Colette maneuvering herself into a comfortable position. He reaches out to touch his friend's fur, then says hesitantly, "Boxing?"

"Bruxing, mon chéri," Colette's voice vibrates against his chest.

Alfredo shrugs mentally as he strokes Colette's hair and resumes his massage duties for the purring – no, bruxing – rat.

Bruxing. Huh. Live and learn.

He's unsurprised to find that he's smiling.


	4. Ma Cuisine a Moi

Ma Cuisine a Moi

Perfect. I add the last touch of caramelized apple to the crème brûlée. Absolutely perfect. I shiver with delight as the scent drives up my nostrils into my brain, blanking out everything. I have to work not to fall off the countertop. Who would have thought that such a simple combination would produce something as marvelous as this?

Satisfied, I'm moving the spoon away when a drop of cream falls onto the countertop. The towels are never far away, and I grab one and wipe up the stain briskly. I can't stand any mess in my kitchen.

My kitchen.

The thought brings me up short.

It's too overwhelming to process, and I sit down heavily on the countertop. How long has it been my kitchen? And why does the full impact of realization hit me only today?

I look around at the stoves, the burners, the tiled walls in the brightly-lit space. Ever-present, I can hear the chatter of my family under the awning, the pots and pans and dishes… the hubbub of the customers outside, Colette and Linguini coming and going… and all this is my kitchen? How did I come from poison-checker to this?

Linguini passes, and gives me the thumbs-up. Something must be showing in my face, though, because he stops and leans down to my level. "Everything OK, Little Chef?"

I shake my head, gesturing around me at the restaurant, at myself. My friend sets down the tray he's holding, and kneels so that we're eye-to-eye. The concern in those big brown eyes seems to strip me of my every secret, and I smile weakly, gesturing round at the restaurant again, then tapping my chest. "I just can't… I just can't take it in. I suddenly realized that this is my kitchen, and I can't seem to believe it," I tell him.

My friend nods slowly, taking it in. "Yeah," he says slowly. "You're a rat, but you're the boss around here."

I just shake my head. For whatever reason, it's just not computing today.

Linguini's gentle, sympathetic. "I know what you're going through, believe me. Some days I wake up and I ask myself if this," his hand motion encompasses the restaurant, his marriage, and all of the above, "if this is real, or whether I'm in a dream and I'm gonna wake up soon."

"Uh…" My head just keeps shaking, rather automatically. The other 364 days I'm confident. Today is just weird.

He smiles encouragingly, chucking me under the chin with one finger. "Yeah, it's your kitchen. C'mon, be proud of it. You've earned it." I can't process it. He goes on. "Hey, the load can seem too heavy sometimes. I know all about that. If you want a vacation, just say the word."

"What's going on? The orders are piling up! " Colette comes driving through the aisle like a whirlwind, depositing three slips with "Special Order' on them in front of me where I can see them. I look at them, my interest sparked…

"Colette, we were just talking…"

But she's unimpressed. "Vite, vite! You can have your tête-à-tête some other time, boys!"

"He's having doubts, Colette!" Linguini says loudly, somewhat urgently.

All she does is look at me, long and hard. "You know better, mon Chef. I would expect this from Alfredo, but not from you!"

"Gee, thanks, Col…"

She sails on. "Dis-moi, mon Chef. Is the lunch rush any time for a crise du coeur?"

"Colette, he…"

The slips with 'Special Order' – bouillabaisse, if I remember correctly – sit there on the countertop, taunting me, tempting me. I should get cooking…

She looks at me and delivers the coup de grace. "One of the customers asked if he could have extra lime added to it." She looks at me rather cunningly, then walks away.

"What?!" Lime?! Extra lime? It would make it too acidic, it would ruin it!

"Little Chef?" Linguni reaches out a finger, but I bat it away, thinking furiously.

Extra lime? What next? Vinegar? I shudder at the thought. Somewhere in the periphery of my vision I sense Colette watching me out of the corner of her eye.

"Little Chef…"

Acidic… acidic… The flavor whirls around in my brain. But then again, in parts of the Mediterranean they add lime to almost any dish! Am I being too much of a purist?

"Let him be, Alfredo. He's working." Colette's retreating voice is definitely satisfied.

Extra lime? …How much 'extra' is 'extra'? Perhaps if I just sniffed out a bit of… I'm moving before I realize it.

Linguini's hand cuts me off as I'm rushing over to the pantry. "Little Chef, you OK?"

I tear myself away from my thoughts impatiently to look at him. "Why shouldn't I be?"

He's so puzzled I feel a little guilty. "Uh… well, you seemed a little worried, you know, a minute ago…"

Oh, yeah. What was it I was having that crisis of the heart about, anyway? I'll have to remember sometime. "I'm fine!" I call, patting his hand and rushing off to have another sniff at the bouillabaisse to determine whether this customer is a pretentious prick or whether he has the glimmering of an idea.

But the lost look in Linguini's eyes pulls me back. "You were feeling kind of, I dunno, funny about this being your restaurant…"

Sigh. The special order can wait another second while I put his mind at rest. Skidding back to where he's still kneeling, face level with the countertop, I grab his chin and kiss him on both cheeks, Gallic-style, and skid backwards to smile at him. "Thank you," I tell him. "I feel much better now I talked to you."

He smiles back, rising. "No problem, Little Chef," he says trustingly. "Sometimes we all need a minute to think about stuff, ask ourselves what's going on, you know?"

"I do," I gesture, giving him the thumbs-up as I rush off to work. I do, but – and it's the last I think about it before the lime issue blots everything out completely – the one thing I know above all else is that this is where I belong.


End file.
